


Our kind of love

by Thorpe



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, idk really, just a bunch of emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorpe/pseuds/Thorpe
Summary: Love is said to be many different things but with you it has always been unlike any of them





	Our kind of love

**Author's Note:**

> Today's news is that maybe Thorpe can write presentable angsts. Thorpe is shook.  
> Publishing credits go to always amazing pinkgrapefruit who lifted me up when I needed it and made me decide to show this little thing to the people after all.  
> As usual, I do not own anything outside of my imagination.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy xx

Love is said to be beyond words wonderful. This great feeling of happiness overpowering everything else, that no description could do justice to. A state of complete, lunatic bliss.

But love is not a holistic being, at least not with you.

It reminds of a mosaic made of tiny, precious pieces you don’t notice, too busy taking in the whole picture, until one is missing. Or more than one. Our picture lost so many I can barely see it nowadays, but when I close my eyes I can still spot every little detail. The contrast of your skin on my skin when we held hands, my pale one bringing out the mahogany of yours, its coldness carrying a relief when mine was too warm and tense. The depth of your eyes which made me drown and float and fly, deviate from my path with a confidence of someone going in the right direction. The rage striking through your face like a lightning that should terrify me, but I always drew closer, fascinated, until your screams were muffled by my lips. I anticipated a thunder resounding through my body, powerful enough to crush my bones if it wasn’t for your arms tightly wrapped around my lean frame. The perfect fit of our bodies, as if we were made solely for being in each others’ arms. I like to think that maybe we were. The sound of your voice, happy laughter that brought up a rush of pleasant heat in my chest and hoarse whispers that made my knees weaken and head spin. Gentle tone you keep reserved only for me, so quiet that my ears don’t pick up all the words, but my heart hears them loud and clear. You use it when you call, asking me to imagine you’re right next to me, but it comes distorted through the phone and I can’t.

 

Love is said to be easy and natural like breathing. Enough in itself. That all it takes is to find this one perfect person and all the obstacles won’t matter anymore.

But love is not some invincible force, at least ours wasn’t.

It’s more of a delicate flower, a shy sprout breaking through soil which doesn’t know how to share all its riches yet. It requires care and work and commitment, and maybe we just aren’t ready for all of this. We foolishly thought it would stay in full bloom forever, and now we’re even bigger fools for ignoring petals falling to the ground. We keep avoiding the question that hangs over us like a life sentence, heavy with strained trust, pretending it never crossed our minds. It was perfect. We were perfect. A great match from the start, clear front-runners whenever paired to work together. Dangerous competition to be reckoned with. A threat for everyone else, nothing but soft hands ready to offer help to each other. We survived, fingers intertwined, refusing to let the other go home before the end. Then I won and couldn’t look you in the eyes. You held me so sweetly and kissed all my worries away, without the slightest hint of reluctance, just pure pride, until even with my eyes closed you were all I saw. Would it be the same now? We were perfect and it should still be like that. Why isn’t it? I have my crown and I have you. Except I don’t, not fully. I don’t have you _here,_  and at times it’s worse than not having you at all. We were so naïve to believe that _there_ would be enough. It’s not and it never will be, but it’s too late now. I’m starting to realize that maybe somewhere between _here_ and _there_ , _you_ and _me_ , _us_ was lost. I’m like a puppy left in the rain, waiting because that’s all I can do. Waiting for you to come back and take me home we don’t have.

 

Love is said to make you a better person. Optimistic and less selfish, seeing everything in brighter colours. Crossing boundaries and reaching for the sky because there’s someone who believes you can.

But love is not that simple, or maybe just with you it wasn’t.

It’s more likely a process, than sudden changes we expected to happen on their own. It requires adjustments on both sides, something neither of us could understand. I was sculpted by Rodin, aiming for grace and beauty. Soft lines captured by eternal steadiness of white marble, clean and perfect. You are Bernini’s creation, all raw and real, captivating and moving. You took my breath away, yet made me feel more alive than ever. I hoped that together we could be like visions of Kobro and Strzemiński. Shapeless, undefined, unlike anything anyone has made before, full of meaning that only the two of us understood. We could be free. But sometimes, no matter how hard we’d try, some things just can’t be merged - peaceful and beautiful in their union. My life has always been about art, and you’re my favourite kind of it. You’ve taken my definition of excellence and wrote it for me all over again. I’d rather leave and worship you from afar than have you altered in any way for me to be close. I’d beg you not to, if you offered to modify even the smallest of your traits. But I know you won’t. And I guess it’s only fair, as I won’t either. We’re two masterpieces that can be admired only on their own, too selfish to coexist, too stubborn to change.

 

Love is said to be many different things, but with you it has always been unlike any of them.

So when the pain becomes too much to bear, and I forget that there once was something else than sadness, when breathing feels difficult and foreign, when there’s nothing left of what I used to be - I wonder if what we had has ever been love after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I always appreciate feedback above anything else but this time I'd appreciate it even more, whether you leave it here or find me at @freykitten on Tumblr


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